You Have To Bite It
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Do you know what John Watson learnt in his first week with his lover in their relationship? Sherlock could bite. Everything about the detective began and ended with that word and if John were asked to describe their relationship in one word, it would be that.


Do you know what John Watson learnt in his first week with his lover in their relationship? Sherlock could bite. Everything about the detective began and ended with that word and if John were asked to describe their relationship in one word, it would be that. It was incongruous; a tangent to Sherlock's personality but it was such a beautiful contrast, such an antithesis to his lover and his ways that every time he thought about it, it made him smile a little (and maybe fall in love a little more than little).

In a bizarre way, most of the "biting" ways of the detective made life much easier for our dear doctor. One of them was the obvious – eating. Sherlock ran away from eating like Severus Snape allegedly ran away from shampoo (when John mentioned this and used the very phrase in front of Sherlock, he had to endure a lengthy discourse on how he had littered a very important shelf in Sherlock's mind palace by hurling such nonsensical information at him). John's lovelorn heart made him appreciate the subtle panes of Sherlock's body, the way his clavicle stood out when he threw his head back as John licked a trail of kisses down his neck, the sheer beauty of his back with its sharp angled bones that could be sucked on for aeons and buried with Sherlock's soft giggles under their mattress. He had spent countless hours making love to his hipbones with his tongue and hands, never tiring of the utter anti-polarity of their bodies.

And yet, every time he sucked on that gorgeous clavicle, his eyes fell upon the protruding ribs and he made a mental note of adding bananas to their shopping list, every time the hip bone poked his sides at night, his sleepless mind jotted down the weekly menu and added oodles of butter to everything. And so, the first instance that 'biting' affected their lives was when John foodjacked his lover. When he fed him two more dumplings and ran his fingers on his palms, tracing the molecular structure of caffeine across his hands and watching Sherlock's mouth and his mind work out of habit. As he would finish chewing the bite, the gulp would be followed by a small exclamation of "caffeine!" and things would end in more puzzles and more dumplings.

Sometimes, when they were lost in the Bond movies Sherlock managed to bring himself to like, John would stuff his hand in the bag of chips and feign not following the eyes of the detective as he put them in his mouth and licked his fingers clean of the salt. Then he would repeat the performance, taking as many chips as he can and wait for Sherlock to guide his wrist towards his own mouth and run his tongue once over his hand before he started gorging on it. Sometimes John would surprise him by putting an apple dipped in Nutella in his mouth and would go around parading with half the apple jutting out, only to be pinned against the fridge and have that bite eaten from between his very lips (and made love to on the kitchen table so hard that Mrs Hudson had to knock on her ceiling using a broom).

The other 'biting' that encompassed Sherlock's entire personality was his speech, his words. The detective was eloquent and very bitingly so, when he wanted to. In the bedroom, he could be the lush mouth that talked dirty with such panache that it could put Shakespeare to shame, his words flowed like golden warm honey on John's body as he showered him with affectionate metaphors of French desserts John had never tasted. And yet, around people he didn't like (or people he nothing'ed) Sherlock's words could give cuts worse than paper and knives. His retaliation left even lips like Mycroft's in a thin quivering line and men like Anderson had no chance around him. He could bite the sass out of a genuine compliment. He could bite the sting out of an insult. He rolled words like puppets around his tongue, he had bitten and saved their juices on his palate and he used them when he could. Perhaps, that's why he didn't carry guns.

And the last biting that defined their relationship was the one they both enjoyed. A lot. Maybe a lot more than lot. It began with a possessive flair when an attractive client sat at Scotland Yard and winked at John between her statement, something no one really noticed as anything strange. But our detective almost lost the thread to his deductions as she flashed her pearly whites and turned around to wink at John and his doctor seemed to take no offence to it. As he solved the case in record time, simply to leave the premises of the yard as soon as he could, he put his hand in the small of John's back and guided him straight to the men's loo, where John's arms were pinned above his head and a possessive bite was sucked on his throat, in clear view of any interested parties. It screamed "Property of Sherlock Holmes" in angry red letters but it also said, perhaps in more subdued tones "I am jealous". Of course, he made up to John by giving him a glorious blow job that knocked the wind out of his lungs and kept him light headed for a full ten minutes after he came. And no matter how many times John asked Sherlock to lend him his scarf, the detective refused and marched his lover out of the yard, making it a point to pause for "something important" outside Lestrade's office so that the offending party, who walked towards them a tad too affectionately saw the mark and hid her shock none too well.

This biting set John on fire, it was the gentle assertion that he had always longed for, the fiery passion of want and possession that he had never experienced for someone and no one had showered on him. It was something so base and forgotten in his life, something that had been worked out of him by strange stories of break ups due to "possessive boyfriends" that he had to be jolted into it, he had to be reminded that it was something so natural and perfect to experience that it should never have been lost. It was so Sherlock in its undiluted chastity that it destroyed John every time he found someone eyeing him and Sherlock's grip tightened on his wrist.

"I am yours, love. I'm not going anywhere," he whispered against the midnight blue locks splayed on his own forehead and possessive hands cupped his face and grey eyes glinted black in the shadows.  
"Mine." The response wasn't really an answer but it was uttered as if it wasn't meant to be heard, a gentle affirmation to self. It was repeated again, a bit more forcefully this time. _Mine_. It echoed inside Sherlock's mouth as he drowned and consumed all of John in him. "Yours," the response walked inside his skin and settled down on the knocker of his mind palace. "Yours," lips brushed against his to bring him back into the intimate and dense wetness that was John's tongue sliding his mouth open and tracing his cupid's bow with childish curiosity. And then John nipped his lower lip and laughed and everything Sherlock had ever known broke into a song around him, there was a symphony of emotions in his head that began and ended with that laugh he had just heard. And he heard it a hundred times that night, he learnt how to retrieve that laugh at his own will and he failed but he was so happy, he could die.

And this is how it started, the mapping of John's body, the slightly tanned and salty veneer rippling over strong muscles softened with something much more than time. Sherlock claimed it all, every bit of flesh, every inch of skin and their chants of "mine" and "yours" died in their throats and continued uninterrupted in their moans and sighs. It started with a soft bite on John's neck, right on top of the now fading first bite, Sherlock could swear that he tasted himself there and John would assure that it was true for every place on his body. The fading mark was brought back to life and the bites rained down, the tissue where his shoulder met his neck was given special attention on either side by Sherlock's mouth that had become terpsichorean, not knowing any direction but moving on his whims. Just when John thought he would be devoured on his chest, it travelled straight to his toes and groaned with the want of every place he had wanted to travel. He halted on his ankles and ran his teeth over them, again and again until John looked down and found Sherlock lost in thought, his mouth cupped over the ball of his feet and he gave a comfortable sigh. He could hear the vibrations from his mind travel straight to his eyes, running through his sinews and just like that, the mouth started moving again. It was like sitting on a dervish's shoulder and waiting to be thrown off. Sherlock spent a lot of time on his soft middle, blowing against it as John couldn't help but chuckle and then groan as the sly tongue dipped into his belly button and wriggled.

When he looked down at his body, there were random bite marks on him, they didn't hurt except the one on his neck which gave a pleasant twinge every time air whispered over it but as he looked down, he felt claimed. He could join all those marks and he was sure they would cover him and Sherlock entirely between themselves. And it was surrender when he clutched at the curly head and the mouth settled on his erection, suddenly reducing him into a blur of colours and soft rubble, picking him up and discarding the unnecessary, creating him from air and water. He made the most delicious sounds as the tongue flitted on his damp head and extricated the very life out of him.

John came inside that mouth and he knew that he had been bitten hard. And he paid every bite back with a lick of his own, so much so that Sherlock Holmes couldn't tell what was traced on the inside of his thighs with John's tongue. So much so that he came without a sound.

Notes: PS - The "eating" part was inspired by Atlinmerrick's fics.  
PPS - I wrote this a long LONG time ago and had even forgotten about it. All your critical comments are appreciated. 


End file.
